Keara Cupidon

This was meant to be my year, the best one yet. The year I turn 40. Finally old enough to know better, but still young enough to do it anyway.

2025 was going to be all about happiness, adventure, probably too much red wine, and just a few questionable choices. 

But December 2024 had other plans for my New Year.

I’d just wrapped up running an event in Melbourne and woke up with a weird hot patch on the right side of my back. Not the good kind of heat, like being snuggled up by a fireplace with a glass of Shiraz - more like oopsie doopsie, I sat on the fireplace after too much Shiraz kind of hot. A few hours later, I was on a plane, uncomfortable and slowly realising the rest of my body felt like it was wrapped in ice. No one could touch me, even water and my clothes stung my skin. Not long after, I lost all feeling in my limbs and the right side of my torso. By the time I landed, I was confused. Nothing I was doing or seeing made sense. I reached Carlo and the kids at the car and just burst into tears. I couldn’t talk. The words wouldn’t come. I couldn’t explain what was happening.

My doctor called everyone she knew, having no idea what it could be. Forty-eight hours later, I saw a neurologist, who also had no clue. Because, as usual with me, my symptoms weren’t typical. They were unpredictable and sporadic, including something I learnt was called a nummular headache. A rare type of headache. Most people get one. I had four. One of them went through my ear, and if you know the history I’ve had with ear surgeries, you’ll understand just how upsetting that was for me. Felt like a bit of a cruel twist, honestly.

On Christmas Eve, the MRI results came in. Just after New Year’s, and three painful spinal taps later, I got the diagnosis: MS. Multiple Sclerosis. Definitely not the kind of New Year’s surprise I had in mind.

I’d been dreaming of a relaxed year - maybe even, dare I say it, one where I actually took it easy. Instead, 2025 kicked off with the start of my MS journey.

It’s been a lot to process. But I’ve got an amazing medical team, and I’ve just started treatment, which is a whole other kettle of fish, complete with a side effect list long enough to make you want to bury yourself under a blanket until 2026. Regardless, I’m doing it. For my family, for myself, and for all the things I still want to do.

So, instead of sitting around feeling sorry for myself, I’m pulling up my socks and giving the MS Australia May 50K a red-hot go, for everyone who had to grow up too fast when life changed without warning, and for those of us who still feel young at heart, even when our bodies have other ideas. And because I still haven’t quite learnt how to take it easy, I’m aiming to hit 100km.

Now, MS and heat are mortal enemies. So of course, glorious Port Douglas,  where the forecast is always hot with a chance of hotter, isn’t exactly ideal for long beach walks every day. On the tough days, I’m looking at getting a walking pad so I can still clock up the kms in the lovely, cool air con, coffee in hand.

Recently, I shared my diagnosis with someone, and their response was, “Oh, is that all? My friend has MS and they’re on the new treatment - it’s like they never had anything wrong. You’ll be totally fine.” 

I wish it were that simple.

But here’s the reality… MS is often called an invisible illness, and it’s true. What you can’t see is often the hardest to explain. Every person’s journey with MS is different. No two cases are the same, and no two treatments work the same way. Turns out, I must’ve caught a virus when I was younger that can cause fatal reactions with some treatments, which means I didn’t qualify for the “miracle” option that works so well for others. And I’m not “totally fine.” I live with memory loss, stuttering, trouble walking, numbness, and horrible, stabbing pains in my head and spine. Every day is unpredictable, and I have to take each one as it comes.

Please remember - MS doesn’t always look the way you might expect. Just because someone seems fine doesn’t mean they aren’t fighting a battle on the inside. I still work full-time, and I’m not planning on slowing down any time soon. I’ve got two kids and a husband I adore, who are helping me through every step of this MS journey. Some days, I manage it all. Other days, I’m completely wiped out by 10am. You might see me out and about, smiling and chatting away like nothing’s wrong - but what you don’t see is that it might be the only time I’ve left the house all week. I’m still figuring out my new normal, still learning my limits, and trying my damn hardest to be kind to myself as I go.

If you’ve got a few dollars to spare or just want to follow along as I aim to reach my 100km target, I’d be super grateful. Every contribution goes to MS Australia for vital research and support.

So here’s to 40.

Here’s to showing up.

And here’s to walking through it — one wobbly step at a time.